Birthday Present
by Annabell Archer
Summary: Happy Birthday, Sherlock! Only, not happy, as Sherlock's expecting a present from his brother, which won't be anything good. Chapter two is optional. It's just Sherlock's way of getting revenge.
1. Sherlock's Birthday

It was just an ordinary day at 221B Baker Street as John tapped on his laptop, creating a blog post for Sherlock's most recent astounding case solution. Sherlock, meanwhile, was on his own laptop, typing up something new on his website, though also glancing suspiciously at the door at frequent intervals. This scrutinizing of the entrance went on for about half an hour before John couldn't take the curiosity anymore.

"Sherlock, why are you doing that?"

"Doing what?"

"Glaring at the door like it's about to explode or something. You expecting a visitor?"

"Yes and no, see today's my birthday and-"

"WHAT?" Sherlock's sentence was cut short by John's exclamation of surprise. "Today's your birthday, why didn't you tell me?"

"Because, as I was about to say before your outburst, I have enough on my plate with Mycroft knowing it's today." Sherlock looked like he was about to say more, but a knock on the front door stopped him. "I'll get it," he said moodily, trudging down the stairs to see who the birthday visitor was. John smiled and returned to his blog, wondering if he should celebrate his flatmate's birthday somehow. He considered throwing a party with Greg, possibly inviting Donovan and Anderson just to piss him off, but before he could text Lestrade he heard a very, very high-pitched scream from downstairs.

"Sherlock, what's wrong-" but his friend ran past him in a surge of fright and slammed the door to his bedroom closed before John even finished the question. He looked to see what had scared the unemotional Sherlock so much, but in his rush the detective had slammed the door behind him, blocking John's view. The doctor briefly debated whether to open the door and see, or go comfort his friend, but Sherlock won out and he briskly walked to the man's bedroom door before knocked on it a couple times. "Sherlock, are you OK?"

"Go away, John. You might have that _thing_ with you."

"Thing? What thing? Who was at the door? What did Mycroft send?"

"A clown." Sherlock might have said more, John will never know because at that moment he had to hurry to hide a snort of laughter. He didn't do very well though, and the door opened just a crack to reveal Sherlock's sulking face. "It's not funny."

John resisted the urge to say, "yeah it is," and instead simply asked, "Clowns? Why are you afraid of clowns?" but seriously, this was the man who had claimed in the Baskerville case that when he had seen the hound was the only time he had ever been scared, and yet, here he was, hiding in his room from a fat man wearing makeup and handing out balloons to children.

"Clowns make for awful deductions," said Sherlock. "They hide the part of their body that tells me the most about who they are, their face, by covering it with makeup. When around one, I don't know if it wants to hug me or stab me, and neither option is desirable. Furthermore, the rest of their outfit is a costume, not their actual clothes, meaning I can't deduce anything from that, either."

John could see where Sherlock's fear was coming from now. Clowns took away his best ability, deducing things. He was about to tell Sherlock he understood when there was a knock on the door to their flat, causing Sherlock to squeal and slam his door shut. John couldn't hold back a burst of laughter this time as he made his way to the door.

"Oh, hello Mrs. Hudson." said John, upon opening the door to reveal their landlady.

"Hello, dearie. Do you and Sherlock have a case?"

John frowned in confusion. "No, why?"

"Well, I heard that little girl scream downstairs a while ago, and I just assumed-" but she didn't finish her sentence as all the absurdity of Sherlock's phobia finally caused John to burst into laughter, gripping the door frame to hold himself upright. Upon explaining that the little girl downstairs was actually Sherlock screaming at a clown, Mrs. Hudson slapped her hand over her mouth to hide a smile and asked John to wish Sherlock a happy birthday for her. John said he would and waved as the woman retreated down the stairs back to her own flat.

Sherlock refused to come out of his room for the rest of the day, which John didn't really mind. This would mean no unprecedented experiments or new body parts in the fridge for a while.

The following morning Sherlock was back to his usual business, only now pouting slightly. "Hey, don't worry," said John in an attempt to cheer his flatmate up. "At least now you have a reason to get revenge on Mycroft."

"Oh, don't worry," said Sherlock, not looking up from his microscope. "Mycroft's birthday is not far from mine, and he just so happens to have a phobia of his own."


	2. Sherlock's Revenge

Mycroft yawned and stretched, enjoying his morning tea and ready to take his challenging job of babysitting the various political leaders of the world. As he breathed a sigh of relief his eyes began wandering around the tea room, but froze upon catching sight of the calendar. October 6th… his birthday. This was normally something to excite a person, and Mycroft knew that he would enjoy whatever surprise Anthea had planned, but he also knew that his darling little brother would be seeking revenge for his own birthday present.

The politician gulped, thinking to the revenge his brother had pulled in past years. He was not looking forward to whatever he had up his sleeve this time. Mycroft resisted all urge to curl up under his covers and screech "I don't wanna be a successful politician today!" like a small child resisting a trip to the dentist. Instead in took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and cried, "Anthea!"

"What?" she said, as she rushed in, looking startled, "what is it?"

"If anything arrives from that brother of mine, make sure to send it away, no matter what."

Anthea looked confused, but she'd had experience with the Holmes brothers before, so she just nodded and smiled, her hand traveling to her pocket where she kept her blackberry. She moved to leave before remembering something and turning to face Mycroft. "Oh, happy birthday."

Mycroft did little more than nod his head in acknowledgement of this well-wishing, then murmured agreement to something he didn't really hear as his PA explained what she had planned to celebrate. Eventually the girl left, leaving Mycroft with the news there was to be a meeting with the Prime Minister of Germany in a few hours.

Mycroft continued to drink his tea, though his taste for the scones accompanying it had vanished, which was probably a first for him. As much as he tried to distract himself, the politician's thoughts kept wandering to the same question: what devious plan did his brother have in store? At some point Anthea came in and dropped of a package the Prime Minister had sent upon hearing of Mycroft's birthday.

Anthea was getting worried about Mycroft. She may have spent 85% of her time with her eyes glued to her phone, but even she could tell that something was wrong. Especially since he wasn't eating the scones. Mycroft always ate the scones.

Suddenly the PA heard a scream from the room containing Mycroft. She once again shoved her phone into her pocket haphazardly and ran in, her mind rushing through a variety of worst-case-scenarios. Kidnappers, assassins, thieves trying to steal her makeup. But these fearful thoughts were wiped from her mind upon entering the room. She was confronted by the sight of Mycroft, the powerful politician Mycroft, with his feet up on the chair in a fetal position, his face pale and sweaty, and his eyes trained on the box from the "prime minister", which was sitting, open, on the table next to his tea.

"What's wrong?" said Anthea, trying not to laugh at this sight.

Mycroft tried to speak a couple times, opening and closing his mouth, but no sound was coming out. He swallowed and tried again. "Th-that box… is NOT from the prime minister…" he managed. Anthea's eyebrows scrunched together and she walked over to look in the box. There were spiders, real, live spiders. That sounds frightening, but they were all the tiny kind you see hanging from your ceiling occasionally that are smaller than the tip of a pin. Meaning, a couple of spiders so small you could barely see them had frightened the politician to a fetal position. Anthea was once again having trouble not laughing.

"It's not funny!" screeched Mycroft. "Kill them! Kill them all! With fire!"

Anthea didn't bother trying not to laugh as she closed the box and carried it out of the room. Once she had disposed of the microscopic monstrosities, she returned to the tea room to make sure Mycroft was OK. The politician had once again returned his feet to the floor, but his head was resting on the table, and he was still a bit pale.

Anthea cleared her throat a bit to get his attention. "Um… I got rid of them."

"Thank god…" muttered Mycroft.

A few minutes later Mycroft had pulled himself together and was ready to meet with the prime minister of Germany. The two politicians were discussing the economy when Mycroft's phone rang. He glanced at the screen to see his little brother's name lit up on the screen. He flashed a somewhat tense smile to the German and excused himself, apologizing slightly.

Once he was in private about two floors down he answered the phone. He didn't have a chance to say anything as Sherlock spoke first. "Did you enjoy your birthday present, brother dear?" he asked innocently.

"That was not funny, Sherlock."

"I wasn't there, but I called Anthea before this and if her reaction is reliable then, yes it was. She was _still_ laughing, I didn't even have to ask. Plus I'm going off of past observations. Don't forget we lived in the same house for years when we were young."

"It was not _that_ obvious."

Mycroft could practically hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. "Please, I've killed enough spiders to be classified as an exterminator."

"Well, you've had your fun. Now, if you please, I have a meeting with-"

"What makes you think I'm finished?" Sherlock asked.

"What-" started Mycroft, but suddenly, a large, very realistic spider zoomed across the floor towards Mycroft. It was about the size of a small dog, covered in short hairs, probably easy to obtain due to the coming Halloween season, and it was so realistic it would've made Dracula pee himself with fear.

Back in the meeting room the Prime Minister was twiddling his thumbs, waiting for his companion to come back. He jumped slightly, however as he heard a very loud, very shrill scream from two floors down.


End file.
